


For the Love of Hogan and Penicillin

by MissyTheLeast



Series: Dear Rob AU! [6]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Hogan's Heroes
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Drama & Romance, M/M, Major Illness
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-14
Updated: 2016-05-09
Packaged: 2018-05-26 10:01:23
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,781
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6234265
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissyTheLeast/pseuds/MissyTheLeast
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hogan and his men have taken over the camp and the Germans are now the prisoners' prisoners (at least, those who have not defected to the Allied cause). While everyone is adjusting to Hogan openly running things with Klink as his Co-Kommandant, sickness has arrived, and there are few supplies.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1 – Past is Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Part of the 'Dear Rob' 'Verse, male/male romantic relationship, so yes, it is slash, but no, there's no actual sex, so I don't want to disappoint anybody or turn off those who might enjoy something non-explicit.
> 
> Again, Hogan and his men aren't mine, but belong to Messers. Ruddy and Fein, Bing Crosby Ent. and CBS.

December 29, 1969  
Bound Brook, New Jersey  
Mid-morning

General Robert E. Hogan was racing back from the Bank to his fink’s side, shedding the ‘General’ as fast as he was shedding his coat. Betty and the rest were out food shopping, except for one volunteer to stay and keep an eye on their Kommandant. He slowed as he got to the stairs and crept up towards the back bedroom, just in case Wili was sleeping, when he caught the tail end of this conversation:

“I’m sorry it is taking so long…”

“Wilhelm Klink, don’t you soddin’ dare to apologize to me, or anybody else, that you’re not dying faster! We all bleedin’ love you, and we treasure every second, and we’ll miss being here for you, as much as we’ll miss you being ‘ere! Just don’t! If Rob could ‘ear you now, it ‘ud break ‘is heart, it would!”

“But Peter, Kleiner, you are all putting your lives on hold for my sake.”

“ An’ we'd do it again! So you don’t worry, Rob does enough of that for us all. Now, you just down a little of this broth, Louie made it special, just for you, and then you cuddle up with ol’ Peter ‘ere, and get yourself warm, and Rob will be home in a jiff. Besides,” (Rob could just imagine the mischievous look on the former POW's face) “you know this ain’t the first time I’ve held a sweaty bloke in me arms.”

 

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

January 4, 1945  
Stalag 13  
Near Hammelberg, Germany

 

It had started with a little cough, a tiny sniffle.

One of the older guards, Otto Wagner, had come back from his Christmas leave with much news and what looked like a common cold.

Nobody, at least of all him, paid it any mind. There was too much to do. The news he’d brought was too important:

“Kommandant Hogan, Herr Oberst Klink, the Allies have won the Ardennes, it may take them until April to get here, but no longer! Sirs, we are free by spring,” the elder guard spouted out in German.

“Private, how can you be sure? The fighting was constant and our men did well to hold and even advance. And now, there is the Rhine to cross.” As badly as he wished the Allies to win, Klink’s emotions were always mixed whenever he thought of his fellow German soldiers, brave yet frightened men, fighting to survive a war they had no realistic hope of winning.

“Permission to speak freely?”

“Go ahead, Huntsman” said Hogan, in English.

The older man smiled, acknowledging the all-clear by the use of his Underground code-name, and switched to English: 

“As you both know, my family lives in Cologne on the eastern bank, close to the docks. We have had word from Baby Bear, she even stayed with us a few days. All of our people are being pulled from the area, and making their way to the Allies in Aachen. I also made it there, and saw much for myself: there can be no doubt that the Allies have regained most of France, all of Belgium, and more than half of Holland.”

“Yes, there is still resistance, but the Americans alone are too much. Combined with the British and Canadian troops under Montgomery, De Gaulle's angry Frenchmen, the Mustangs and the B-52s ruling the skies and the RAF wrecking vengeance on anything higher than a telegraph pole and bigger than a vegetable patch, and there is no hope for the Third Reich. Whether there is hope for Germany is another matter.”

“Otto, I..”

“No, nein, Herr Colonel, Robert, the fault is not yours, that you should apologize.” The man known as 'Huntsman' shook his head: “Lay the fault where it belongs – at the doorstep of that madman in Berchtesgaden. His, and the demon he sold the German people to in his lust for power.

 

“But this should cheer you; when they found out that I was one of Papa Bear's cubs, they could not do enough for me. We may be the Unsung Heroes, but in the right circles our praises are at least whispered. 

“They brought me to see a Col. Phillips, a very no nonsense fellow. He started to interrogate me, but he had 'forgotten' to use the recognition code, trying to bluster me into revealing what should not be said to mere mortals...

(his trip to the American HQ near Aachen flashed into his thoughts)

A command tent with the barest essentials and a Colonel in field uniform, an archetype of a Texan Sheriff made flesh, staring down an equally weathered German in a private's well worn winter gear:

“Damn it Private! You say you're one of us, but you haven't said anything a-t'all, and I've just about had E-nough...”

Sigh and smirk: “In Germany, the birds fly North for the winter.”

“WHAT??”

“In Germany, the birds fly North for the winter.”

“Now what kind of damned fool crazy talk...oh, oh SHIT.” The American shakes his head and bowing his head down as he pinches the bridge of his nose, he mumbles: “No, the birds fly South for the winter.”

“The Sun rises in the West and sets in the East.”

“The Sun rises in the East and sets in the West. And the rest of it goes, 'Friend, you're lookin' at an Injun that doesn't know his Suns from his birds' and for the love of Pete, who comes up with this crap?”

“Someone in London with a very warped sense of humor.”

 

...it was very amusing” grinned Wagner, “but once he was convinced that I was 'safe', we got on splendidly. As an apology for doubting, he introduced me to his command group. I think I must be the first German soldier to meet the Howling Commandos and leave their presence unharmed.”

“You're kidding me.” 

“You must be joking.” 

Wagner laughed at their joint disbelief: “Oh, but I have pictures! Dernier took them and he will make sure that his unit is the one that liberates this camp, so that he can give them back to me.”

Sobering slightly, the Huntsman continued: “I also spoke to a few of our contacts by radio: General Walters has made the safety of the Underground workers a priority, and General Patton has made it very plain that should any member of the Underground be deliberately harmed, there will be, hem, ‘dire consequences’.”

“Otto, that’s not what Patton said, was it?”

“No, but what he did say I cannot repeat in polite company. I was Offizier once you know!” 

The men chuckled at the sad truth of that statement, and the Huntsman continued with his analysis:

“Patton is in a race against time, against the Russians, and against Montgomery. So, he means to push through, and he is dragging the rest of the Allies with him. He wants us to be ready and in position to get him across the Rhine”

“He doesn’t want much does he?” said both of his commanders with one voice.

 

“Until then, the generals have asked me to re-affirm the current orders: no more sabotage, no more escapes, pick-up and hold the wounded and return only the able-bodied to the Allied lines and only if Mama Bear or Goldilocks contact us. Radio silence except in emergency and here are the new frequencies and the latest recognition codes.”

“Well, with radio silence, hopefully we won’t need the radio until we get the parts we ordered.”

“Unfortunately, here is the bad news: with the bombing so extensive, London cannot drop anymore packages to us without exposing everyone to undue risk; worse, several shipments of Red Cross packages have been confiscated by the SS. We will have to make do with what we have.”

Hogan jumped up and began to pace: “Damn it! We need those parcels and we need those radio parts!” Turning to his co-Kommandant, Hogan asked: “How are the supplies holding up? Any hope of getting anything from Burkhalter or the Luftwaffe Quartermaster?”

Klink shook his head: “I doubt it. Those packages are likely on their way to the black market, and Burkhalter has been crying poverty even while giving a lavish Yule party and toasting the Third Reich at New Year’s. Feeding hungry prisoners is quite low on the Luftwaffe's list of priorities, and Burkhalter is actually trying to find us extra rations. Hopefully, he’ll find more food before he sends over the new prisoners, but I would not count on it.”

“Then it is a good thing that you loaned Heinz the kubelwagon for his homecoming; we met outside of Dusseldorf, and were able to buy a load of winter roots with the funds I was given at headquarters. Heinz is unloading the truck now. 

“I wish that I had known about the radio. Does no one in the Underground have a spare, what of the camp radio?”

“We cannibalized Klink's last month before you left. That's why we weren't worried enough. But those parts were so old, they failed under the constant use. Now we're stuck.”

 

“And we cannot go about asking, there is sickness in the town,” Klink added, “Olsen is at the Schnitzers’ caring for both Otto and his father. Max’s nephew is living at the store so that Max does not catch this ‘flu. Everyone is limiting contact and many homes are already under quarantine. The only way we can get word out is by sending a dog to the Schnitzer’s, and we cannot risk that too often.”

“Are Red Riding Hood and Snow White?”

“Safe, as far as we know. You mourn neither daughter nor wife today,” said Klink.

“And if we can, we’re gonna keep it that way,” added Hogan. 

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

 

It had started with a little cough, a tiny sniffle.

Otto Wagner, the Huntsman, had come back from his Christmas leave with much news and what looked like a common cold.

Nobody, at least of all him, paid it any mind. There was too much to do.


	2. Chapter 2 – London?  We have a problem.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Please be warned that this Chapter features an off-color, but historically accurate remark; please see the note at the end for the explanation.

January 11, 1945  
Stalag 13  
Near Hammelberg, Germany  
Morning Assembly

 

“Gentlemen, I think by now, we all know that this is NOT going away, and it will get worse before it gets better. Now we have nearly 1200 men in this camp, and I want that same number to be present and accounted for this time next month. We are not going to lose ANYONE, Allied, Resistance or Neutral, not if a little planning and cooperation,”

“And Faith, Colonel, don't forget Faith!” yelled out the normally reserved Father Mulcahey, breaking the tension and eliciting chuckles from the flock.

“And Faith,” the Colonel smiled, “can make the difference. For right now, I want to speak with our Neutrals and our Resistance tower guards, so fellas, stick around. I want all Allied personnel inside now, and I'll go over the plan with all barracks leaders out here in an hour. Schultz?”

“Jawohl, Herr Kommandant Hogan.”

“Schultzie, I need you and anyone of the Resistance who aren’t sick yet in Guard Barrack B. Heinz and Weber are already on the mend, and Jurgen and Kohl have volunteered to stay with the sick group, so that should be enough people to care for them. The heavy duty cases like Otto are already quarantined in the Rec Hall, and with any luck, we moved fast enough to prevent the further spread. Oh, and tell everybody to stay out of the tunnels, Baker and the crew down there should be safe enough, but I'll need to find them some place warmer at night....”

“Perhaps, they can stay in B with us? The new tunnel is holding per-fect-ly and it is better than all that damp below.”

 

“Great idea, Schultz, see to it.”

 

As Schultz waddled off, Hogan, flanked by his German adjunct and POW liaison, Captain Matthias Dingle, turned to address the Neutrals (who were already displeased and restless) as one shouted in German, “But where are we to go? We were assured that we would be properly treated if we caused no trouble!”

“Mueller!” Dingle ordered back in the same language, “Give the Kommandant a chance to speak, before you judge.”  
Knowing it would take the wind out of Mueller’s sails, Hogan continued in German:

“Gentlemen, I assure you and give you my word; we are doing everything we possibly can to get this epidemic under control, and we are doing our utmost to keep the healthy, healthy. That’s why we need to shuffle people around.” Taking a sharper, more commanding tone, Hogan went on: “This is inconvenient for everyone, and no one group is being singled out, or spared for that matter. So I expect your full and complete co-operation as we relocate you to Barracks 4.”

 

“Barracks 4? All of us? Do I resemble Ashenputtel, to sleep in a garret on the hearth?” sneered Mueller.

 

“You will speak to Kommandant Hogan with respect or you will never speak again!” Dingle had drawn himself up, ready to frog-march the heckler straight to the cooler, when a hoarse voice stopped him:

“Thirty days in the cooler for insubordination; however, punishment to be postponed until the current crisis is over. I am warning you, Lieutenant, I did not allow you to speak disrespectfully to Colonel Hogan when he was our prisoner, and I will not tolerate it now that we are his.” 

 

All eyes turned to the Prussian officer on the front porch of the Kommandantur.

 

Co-Kommandant Wilhelm Klink, was, by all accounts, a changed man. 

 

Changed for the better.

 

The changes were pronounced in some ways, subtle in others. 

 

The subtle ones had to do with nerves, or the lack of them. That strange little pitched quaver in his voice? Gone. The funny little strut that made him look fussy and foolish? Also gone. How about the way he would hunch over so that his head and neck would sink into his shoulders, always shrinking into himself (which usually meant that 'molting vulture' was the odds on favorite description)? Gone, gone, gone.

 

What was pronounced? Everything else. Still slightly pompous, still more likely to guess wrong than right, Wilhelm Klink's mask of foolish, mindless sycophancy was torn off, trampled under a growing self-confidence and a willingness to learn from others, regardless of rank. 

More and more, Klink was reaping respect from the fairness he was showing; “F.I.N.K.” was becoming a term of affection and not hidden ridicule. 

So now, seeing the steel in Klink's eyes, Mueller deflated, and Gruber quickly spoke up: “Danke, Herr Kommandant, we will move, and there will be no trouble.” Turning to the others, Gruber snarled at the rest, “Right boys?” The remaining soldiers, a bit surprised at Gruber's attitude, grumbled but agreed.

“Great! Thanks for the cooperation gentlemen! Dingle, let me know if your bunch needs anything. The new attic is solid and the thatching hasn't leaked at all. The new venting system works like a charm, so the men and yourself should be warm and dry. And nobody has to double bunk, like the rest of us.”

That caused more than a few to snicker quietly, but before the grins and sneers could turn into open mockery, Hogan and Klink barked: “DISMISSED!”

Hogan glanced at Klink, and the two locked eyes for a few seconds longer, (just long enough to have a quick conversation, Dingle thought) and Klink nodded, retreating back into the warmth of the Kommandantur.

But before Dingle could excuse himself to follow the Neutrals, Langenscheidt approached and saluted: “Kommandant Hogan, if I may have your permission to suggest?”

“Sure go ahead.”

“I already know the plan for the Night Watch; Captain Dingle does not. Allow me to supervise the move. I am still friendly with most of the men, and if they can gripe a bit now, I can stop the rumors and show them the truth. I helped to rebuild that barracks, I know what they fear and can show them it is a better building than any except for the Kommandantur. In front of the Captain, they will not speak, and”

“Better to let 'em grouse and get it out into the open now, than let it fester and come out when Gruber and Mueller can use the resentment to stir up trouble, right?”

“Exactly, Herr Kommandant!”

“Well, Dingle, what do you think?”

“I think it a splendid idea. And it will foster trust; they will see that we mean what we say, that if they cause no trouble, they will be as free as possible under the circumstances.”

“Good. Go ahead, Dingle will relieve you at supper.”

As Langenscheidt left, Hogan turned to the remaining guards: “Gentlemen, I have good news and bad news. The bad news is that we still need to maintain our cover; the outside world needs to believe that this is still an ordinary prisoner of war camp. And we still need to have as much warning as possible of the Third Reich's movements. Which means we still need to man the lookout towers and have at least one outside night sweep every so often.”

“Herr Colonel, if that is the bad news, what is the good news?” asked Heinrich Heinz, the oldest of the teenaged guards. Befriended and protected first by Hogan and Barracks Two, then assigned as the guard/mascot of Barracks 12, he had become 'Richie' to the camp and was a general favorite, so he was never afraid to respectfully interrupt Hogan, knowing that his idol would always answer.

“The good news is you'll be trading shifts back and forth with the forest lodge lookout guys, and you'll take your meals with them and sleep there until the flu has passed. Also, we can't allow braziers up in the towers, but the guys in the metal shop have reinvented Victorian hand-warmers,” (and the Colonel suited word to deed and tossed an egg-shaped metal sphere at Richie, which the teen deftly caught). “Make sure you're wearing gloves when you use 'em, because they get hot. It won't help anything if you have frostbite AND third-degree burns.”

Hogan smiled at his Night Watch and added: “Now head over to Barracks 9 but don't go in! Sergeant Fassbender will have a bucket of these things ready and waiting outside. Sam, Kaminsky and the rest of the lookouts will be coming to relieve you in a few minutes. Dingle, you and Sam set up schedules; nobody over-does it, and no double shifts. We've got plenty of people to take on nights and everybody gets a turn. I mean it when I said we need to keep the healthy, healthy. So those coming off shift will report directly to Captain Dingle and to Sergeant Minsk. They'll report to me. All clear?”

A chorus of affirmatives, and Hogan then dismissed the lot.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Corporal Melvin J. Kaminsky was doing something verboten; he was chattering away with his friend Sergeant Vladimir 'Sam' Minsk in Yiddish, as they walked down the road on the way back to Stalag 13, at the head of a column of 'guards':

“Sam, you in the pool yet? What date you got?”

“Which pool? If you are speaking of the Liberation, I have March 28. You?”

“I'm a comedian, so April Fool's Day, what else!” Looking around and lowering his voice (even though he was certain no one in earshot could understand him), he added: “And for the other?”

Sam bristled and hissed even lower: “What do you mean, 'and the other'? There IS no other! I warn you, friend, Robert Hogan is as a son to me, and I will not see him mocked.”

“Oi! Do I look like I'm mocking? Sure, I may laugh, but it's all right. He's all right, and they're all right in my book. Face it, without Jews, fags or gypsies, there is no theater.”

Sam stared at the man, mouth open: “Are you serious?”

“Yeah, Sam, I am. For once. And some of us, their friends, are talking about getting a camp wide meeting together, to, you know, clear the air. At this point, every one knows, even if they don't, and”

“And the best to do is let sleeping dogs lie.”

“NO! Can't you see? The Colonel won't slip up; he's too slick. But the Kommandant? That's what the pool is! When he's gonna let that crush show too much! The other other pool was already won by Shurtlieff – leave it to a woman to figure midnight Christmas, I was sure they wouldn't make it past the last day of Hanukkah, the 18th, I mean they're guys! Klink hasn't had a date go well in thirty years, but nooo, figures they're both romantics.”

“Our little Robin was part of such a thing? I don't believe it!”

“She was, and damned proud of the win. And some of the people you'd least expect were in on it too; in on it and happy for 'em. It won't be a lynch mob, Sam. I swear. But we need a plan. They're safe here. Crazy ain't it? But true. Them, Hill, Fassy and Mac, Gunny and O'Neill...not to mention the rest of us, the outcasts and outsiders, the Negroes and we Jews, Danny Chin and his Chinatown crew, Gunga Din, the braves, all of us, here, somehow we're safe. All because of Hogan. But outside? He can't change the world all by himself. He needs us behind him, watching his back. So, we do for him what he does for us, we plan.”

“Plan? Plan for what?”

“The future, Sam. We make the outside world act more like in here. Here, where Kinch is as much of a man as Olsen, where Hill can walk around and not get beaten up, where Carter can show the world what a fool Hitler really is – fact is, I'm making that my life; making Hitler and the Nazis so ridiculous, that no one sane will ever believe in their ideas ever again.”

Before Sam could reply, they found themselves within sight of the Stalag's fence. “Don't you worry, Sam,” muttered the young Brooklynite, “even if it takes all the rest of our lives, Hogan and Klink will be safe.”

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx 

 

Hogan's meeting with the barrack leaders went smoothly; no one had any objections to the new duty rosters or to the additional precautions in place to prevent a wider outbreak of sickness.

MacAvoy spoke for the group: “No worries here, Sir. Nobody else sick since Martin and Higgs went down, and just them out of forty leads isn't bad. And of the rest, it's been two days since Cassidy went to the Rec Hall, without his voice all saints be praised!” Universal laughter rang out at the thought of the camp kvetch without his whining as Mac continued, “and seems to be the last of 'em, right enough.”

“Still, I need everybody to keep sharp about this. Wilson says that this strain of 'flu has a short incubation period, but that still means we have another 3 days of no new cases to be sure that the epidemic is over. So we keep up with all the precautions; rubbing alcohol by all the doors and daily wash down of the handles and faucets, and at the first sign of sickness?”

“Straight to the Infirmary!” chimed the group. 

“Terrific! Keep up the good work fellas, and I'll see you all at evening roll call. MacAvoy, it's 9's turn to help LeBeau keep the Stone Soup pot going. Dismissed!”

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

As he watched the men disperse to their tasks, Hogan couldn't help a soft smile of pride; everyone had come together in light of the crisis, the new guys from Stalag 7 blending in with the 'old-timers', determined to share the burden of running the finest Underground Rescue & Sabotage unit in Europe, doubling as the 'toughest POW Camp in all of Germany'. 

The American Colonel realized that he was alone and relaxed: things would work out; they would all get home safe. The worst was over and everyone was on the mend. Good thing, too. They had used the last of the penicillin on Kinch; the last of the sulfa on Cassidy. 

Yeah, good thing the worst was over. 

So Hogan thought as he pivoted an about-face...and collapsed.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: As promised: “[W]ithout Jews, fags or gypsies, there is no theater.” For those who don't know, this is a direct quote from Mel Brook's remake of the Jack Benny hit movie: “To Be Or Not To Be”. The story of a 'world famous in Poland' acting troupe, who find themselves needing to escape Warsaw after the Nazis' invade. The thing that knocks me for a loop is that the original came out in 1942, when the Nazis were winning the war. It takes guts to make fun of your adversary when he's kicking your butt. 
> 
> Then there's this: “I'm making that my life; making Hitler and the Nazis so ridiculous, that no one sane will ever believe in their ideas ever again.” That is the paraphrase of Mel Brooks' stated philosophy – which is why he is constantly making fun of them. 
> 
> And by the way, Mel Brooks' real name is Melvin J. Kaminsky, he's from Brooklyn, New York, and he is a World War II veteran, who, during the Battle of the Bulge, got tired of the Nazis broadcasting propaganda over loudspeakers towards the American lines. So he rigged up a sound system of his own and played Al Jolson's music right back. Which was gutsy enough, except that the real joke was that Jolson was Jewish and he sang jazz (two things that the Nazis hated). Mel Brooks does not only make fun of the Nazis from a safe distance; he has been mocking them up close and personal, while they were actively trying to kill him, since 1944.
> 
> I figured he would fit right in with Colonel Hogan and the Unsung Heroes.
> 
> Finally, I almost forgot - endless thanks to my betas - Snooky, 80sarcade, Kat and Wolfie, and extra hugs to Snooky for allowing me to use her OC, Jason Cassidy, from her story, "With a Song in My Heart".


	3. Chapter 3 –  Knocking on Heaven's Door

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Colonel Hogan has collapsed from illness, and for once, it is Kommandant Klink to the rescue....

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: My thanks again to Wolfie, Kat, Snooky & 80s for the original beta.

January 11, 1945  
Stalag 13  
Near Hammelburg, Germany  
Mid-Morning  
In the Kommandantur, private quarters

It had been a near thing; as it was no one was sure how long their CO had been lying on the frozen parade ground.  Schultz had found him, as he was returning to the Kommandantur to make his report, and his yells for help had brought men running.  Wilson was fetched as Hogan was carried into what had been Klink's private quarters and which were now the living space of the core team and both colonels.  While Wilson commandeered men and material to make his patient comfortable in the main bedroom, questioning everyone he could buttonhole, demanding answers that no one had, Klink had been roused from his doze on the couch and was desperately trailing the medic, trying to make sense of a dozen confused replies. 

A cacophony of shouts, blame, guilt, and above all, fear, swirled around the men in Klink's living room, spilling over into the outer office.

"SHAD-APP!"

The noise stopped as if a switch was thrown.  No one (except Schultz) could believe the source of the most un-military order the occupants had ever heard.

Klink was still red-faced and breathing heavily; the yell had taken a great deal of energy, energy that the older Co-Kommandant did not really have.

"Thank you!" he growled, voice still hoarse from sickness and shouting.  "Now, if we can dispense with this useless waste of time?  Sergeant Minsk, Corporal Kaminsky, neither you nor the rest of the lookouts can be blamed for not turning around to watch an empty compound when no one is conceivably trying to escape.  Langenscheidt, Dingle, Schultz, you all had your orders, which seemed to be relocating the Neutrals between Guard Barracks B and Barracks 4, neither of which building is within eyesight of the main compound, so how could you see anything?  Lieutenant MacAvoy, you and 37 other leaders were under orders to get out of the cold and into barracks as swiftly as possible; you were not to dawdle about and admire the scenery.  As for the rest…" Klink's glare softened as he took in the remaining worried faces, "none of you were even in the vicinity when the barrack leaders were being addressed, so why in the world would any of you have suddenly been moved to take a stroll to nowhere?" 

Wordless, all the men hung their heads, (even Wilson, who had started the shouting out of worry for his infamously difficult patient in the first place) as Klink ended the diatribe: 

"Gentlemen, believe me when I say to you, it is no one's fault.  No one at all.  You did as you were ordered, and Colonel Hogan would never find fault with that."

Before he could continue, Private Krauthammer, (short, barrel-chested, yet wry member of the Resistance, once a cobbler in civilian life) barreled into the Kommandantur, shoving past those in the outer office in his way, shouting in German:  "Kommandant!  An SS Major is at the gates, demanding entrance, and his men have our foragers at gunpoint!"

Luckily, Kinch was already in the room, and immediately started implementing a plan:

"Kommandant, you have to go out there and stall.  Or better still, demand that they turn over our men and leave the area.  Dingle, go with him."  

Kinch fired off more orders as the trio ran for the outer door (with Krauthammer leading the way):  "Everyone who isn't in a German uniform, except for Wilson, in the tunnel now.  Wilson, you and Newkirk make sure the Colonel is comfortable, but get him in one of Klink's nightshirts.  The rest of you, get into the outer office and pretend you were getting orders for the day.  Act bored."

"And what will you be doin', Kinch?” asked Newkirk, as they rushed into Klink's bedroom.  "Me?  I'm off to our barracks and the coffee pot, as soon as I help you guys with the Colonel.  You'll stay here with them, since you're in Luftwaffe uniform, and 'guard' the medic treating 'Major Hoople'."

"No."  The three men snapped their heads to the source of that voice.

Colonel Robert Hogan was wheezing softly, face mottled from the effort of speaking and throwing off the covers cocooning him.  "No, get me up to the side window, the one looking out on the front gate.  I need a line of sight on Klink; the angle is high enough that whoever is out there won't notice.  Hurry, fellas, we don’t have much time."

Long used to following Hogan's orders, no matter how outlandish, the three men helped their commander out of bed, then half-carried, half hauled him to the small bedroom.  Hogan stopped them at the foot of the bedstead and shuffled a step or two to the right, leaning heavily on Kinch's arm.

"Yeah, that's it, perfect."  Hogan was now able to peer out the lattice window, the main gate and the men on either side clear in his sights.

The Colonel clung to his 'support' and stared out the window.

And stared.

None of the enlisted men could clearly hear what was being said outside, but they could all see the SS Major becoming more agitated and uncertain.  None of them could see the faces of their own people; Klink and the others within the wire had their backs to the Kommandantur, and the rest were beyond their view.

Nevertheless, they all knew immediately when Klink won the argument.  The gates were opening, Klink was striding forward, the Major (who looked like the poster boy for the Lebensborn program, blond, blue-eyed, muscled and sneering), backing up, the guns were lowering, the invaders were turning to leave...and Klink (who had been standing in his habitual pose, bent slightly forward, right arm crooked forward cradling his riding crop, left arm forming an 'L' behind his back) changed.

Klink crossed his arms, allowing the riding crop to dangle and tap smartly against his left leg (even from behind, one could tell), straightened his back ramrod tall, then shifted his hip - so.  A stance that projected command, authority, control, flying ace; in short, if the men in the room hadn't known that Hogan was right next to them, they would have being certain that their Colonel was at the gate taking charge.

The foraging parties flooded the entry way and flowed around the two officers, giving both as wide a berth as possible, until all were inside the wire fence.  As soon as the last Stalag soldier was past, Klink backed up just enough to allow the gates to close with him inside.  The Major turned to leave, and apparently someone said something, because the SS man turned slowly, and clearly only grudgingly, gave the full Reich salute.  Klink flipped a curt hand up in response, remaining in place until the last of the SS convoy was out of sight.

Only then did the German Kommandant turn, making a bee-line for the Kommandantur.

Only then, did Hogan close his eyes and slump into Kinch's frame. 

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Late Afternoon  
In the Kommandantur, private quarters, living room

 

Wilson was taking a break, going over his mental list of blessings for the third time in 3 minutes; it was a short list.

1\.  Hogan was strong and stubborn, the will to live (if only to aggravate the Powers That Be) enough to tip the scales in his favor - normally.

2\.  Hogan was in a warm, comfortable, clean bed in a warm, comfortable, clean room.  One could never underestimate the healing simple warmth and cleanliness could provide.

3\.  Hogan was surrounded by good, competent people who would do anything for him, even at risk to their own lives.  Good thing to know and it’ll come in handy - as soon as we can come up with a plan to save his life that is.

Of course, that was the good news; there was a lot more bad news.

1\.  There was no water in camp - none.  Every pipe had frozen solid in the night; even the water tower was a large block of ice - we'd have to destroy the entire contraption and then we'd still have to try to chop the ice apart and pry the wooden sides loose - but for now?  There had only been enough water to prepare the noon meal.  The pipes might defrost by the next afternoon, if they were lucky.

2.  Which brought up point two: they couldn't leave camp.  That SS bastard had made it clear:  the current troop movements in the area were highly classified: all persons, civilian or military, were to be confined to their homes or barracks for the next three days.  Military couriers were the only exception - not even Doctor Adenauer or Father Ritter were allowed to leave their homes to attend to the sick and dying, Max can't even open his store to sell or the people allowed to be out to buy, how is anyone going to live?

3.  There was not enough food to last three days.  Maybe.  All the hunting, fishing, trapping, foraging had managed to keep enough food on the table (and he could not believe the almost miraculous way that flocks of game fowl always seemed to be migrating late in the area).  Without the missing Red Cross packages, they had done everything to ration while still maintaining a decent daily intake. He had to smile and chuckle to himself -poor Kommandant, taking his new role as Assistant Head Camp Counselor to heart, to the point of making sure that people neither hoarded food nor stinted themselves-

      "Kommandant, nobody else is sick or vomiting on the food, so I don't think anything has gone bad, what did you have to eat?"    
"The same as everyone!  Spam, potatoes, onions, fresh milk."    
"How much did you have?"    
"One plate each."    
"Each?"   
“ Yes, like the rest of Barracks 14, 27 & 8.  I make a practice to sit with each table, get to know the men and I rotate, so there are no favorites, you understand.  Why this morning I sat with Barracks 40, 32 & 12 and this evening I will...ooooohhh, I AM an idiot."

-which didn't quite turn out the way originally planned, but with the small adjustment of only eating once at each meal, Klink was enjoying himself immensely - and so are the men, even if they do roll their eyes at some of his stories and his 'sage advice'.   
       
Wilson's mind flashed forward to the confrontation at the gate.  Thank God Chief Bender kept a cool head; that Kraut Major looked ready to shoot the first guy who looked cross-eyed at 'im. Not to mention the slick way Klink handled that Nazi...Colonel is rubbing off.  Heck, I'd say 'possessed' if I didn't know any better.  Bender had managed to save the single deer his hunting group had brought down, convincing the group leader who'd accosted them that the meat would go bad and become poisonous if not professionally dressed by the camp butcher, and an army on the march had no time to spare waiting.  The rest of the foragers weren't so lucky; all the fish grabbed, all the traps despoiled and destroyed, all the wild produce confiscated.  Only good thing about that is those jerks got the shaggy ink caps; Petersen swears that the entire supply will be nothing but black mush by sundown.

4\.  Sundown.  Normally, Wilson loved sundown, something else that he had in common with the Colonel.  But now?  Sundown was a visible sign that time was running out for his patient.  They were out of every fever reducer, every pain reliever, every medicinal herb useful for colds and 'flu.   They were even out of snow!  Nothing to bring down the fever that was burning him up from the inside; nothing to stop the lungs from filling.  If the fever and the immune system overload doesn't kill him, the pneumonia/bronchitis will.

"Wilson?"  Sergeant Joseph Petersen, his Hardy Boy-esque assistant, called out from the bedroom, breaking his reverie, "better take a look.  Fever's hit 104.3."

A few quick march strides took him back into the sick room.  He looked.  And as worried as he was, he started to smile.  Then he noticed Carter putting the Minox away, and he saw red.

"Carter."  If you never heard a man bark a whisper, Wilson managed the feat.  "What the hell do you think you're doing?"  A head jerk towards the door, and Carter followed Wilson back out into the living room.  Petersen wisely stayed behind, closing the door to muffle the impending dressing down that was sure to follow.

"Carter," Wilson began to hiss, still trying to keep his voice low, but before he could gather a head of steam, his target interrupted with some heat of his own-

"What are you so steamed up about?  You're not ashamed of them, are ya?"

The medic was stunned to silence, allowing Carter to continue the offensive:

"Don't know about you, but I'm real proud of them; they make the best team, and the Colonel is the best CO in the entire Army Air Corps and any place else you could mention!  And Klink's a great Team Mom, he'll do whatever the Colonel asks, and he cares for us so much.  And try, just try and hurt one of them, the other will come running, boy oh boy, I wouldn't want to be the dummy that pulled that kinda mean trick, lemme tell you, fella and..."

"Hold it hold it hold it!  What are you driving at?  What does taking pictures with the spy camera got to do with being proud of our Colonel and Kommandant?  Not that I'm disagreeing with anything you've said so far - I'm, well, I can't see there being a better man than Rob Hogan to keep us all alive and keep this cockacockmamie outfit going -"

"That's right!  And they need our help and all the backup they can get!"

"Backup? Backup for what?  Carter, you're not making any sense."

Nodding emphatically, Carter replied:  "Backup.  Remember General Barton?  A lot of people will need to know about us.  People who might not believe it.  It's kinda crazy, us running the best Underground operation under the Krauts' noses.  If it was just that. it wouldn't be a big deal, the higher ups will know who we are and who the Colonel is, but we've spent a couple of years making Klink look stupid and sometimes mean, when he was playing a game with the Krauts too - protecting us.  So now, when it's almost over, how's he gonna prove that he's been one of us, and not just since Thanksgiving, either?"

"Umm, well, he's got us..."

"Until they split us up and we go home."

"But, doesn't the Colonel have it all figured out?  Letters and stuff?"

"Yeah, he does, but I've been listening to the older guys, like Schultz and Sam, and they're worried that a lot can happen between here and London during an evac.  I'd been taking pictures for months, some of us - processing guys, my lab, the tunnels, to prove we aren't any kind of quislings.  But as we've added our friends here in the camp, I've taken shots of them working with us on the sly."

"Damn it, are you trying to get us all killed?  We're in the middle of enemy territ…"

"I know that," said Carter, cutting him off. "It's a risk, but face it - you've seen the sort of Krauts we've been dealing with lately.  I've been out a lot.  Used to be, soldiers I'd run into at the Hofbrau or on the street were just guys.  Ordinary fellas just trying to get by.  Now?  All crazy Hitler Youth.  Or SS.  Or Gestapo.    The way they treat civilians, their own people!  It's like they've got rabies or sumptin'.  Nah, if they think they've got any of us, they'll kill us all.  Proof won't matter.  Makes you homesick for Hochstetter.  He won't murder everybody, just because."

"You've really thought this through, huh?"

"I have.  I'd never do anything to hurt the Colonel, and the Kommandant neither.  'One picture's worth a thousand words' they say.  With the proof I've got, they won't be able to throw our Germans in jail; they won't hurt our Kommandant."

"And they won't have to take our word for it; and with a positive ID, they won't arrest the wrong Hans Schultz.  Ok, you convinced me, but why take a picture just then?"

"Because it was beautiful - they're beautiful.  No one who sees that shot can ever think that there's anything wrong with them.  Besides."

“Besides what?”

“Proof that angels exist is too good to pass up.”

Wilson’s comeback was interrupted by Petersen, Klink and Newkirk, who filed out into the main room, looking solemn.

"I have had a vision," stated Klink without preamble.  "Newkirk and I must make contact with a man that I know; he will have the medicine we need to save Colonel Hogan.  We must leave immediately, and I must have a uniform that would be proper for a courier, perhaps an Obergefreiter?"  Klink addressed that remark to Newkirk, who nodded and ran to the stove access to the tunnels.  As he popped down into the depths, Klink continued:  "Newkirk will drive the motorcycle with the sidecar.  I would go alone, but I am not qualified to drive the motorbike, and driving the car will be to invite too many road blocks and too much inquiry.  I would send Newkirk alone, but the man in question will not deal with anyone except for me. Where is Kinchloe?  The Sergeant should know this."  

Petersen shook his head, while Wilson mechanically answered:  "Kinch is in the Colonel's old office in Barracks 2.  He's looking at the maps and plotting out where the bulk of the traffic seems to be heading."  

"Sehr gut.  Petersen, get the motor pool to ready the vehicle and tell them to bring it round; then bring the Sergeant back with you."  

"Yes, Sir!"  Petersen's salute was quick, but more respectful than he had ever managed to give Klink before (in fact more respectful than he'd ever imagined he'd ever give the F.I.N.K.), and he took off running.

Stunned, Wilson could only gape while Klink stripped off his Colonel's jacket, unable to wrap his mind around what he'd just witnessed. Klink, their Klink, the milquetoast who’d cringe at a loud noise; so obsequious, he’d believe any folderol that Hogan (or really, anyone in authority) would foist on him – The man was now competently taking charge; having ‘visions’ of all things! And we’re all acting like Hogan’s giving the orders – ‘possessed’ indeed! 

Klink looked strangely at the American medic:  "Doctor, is there something you wish to say?"

Slowly, Wilson nodded his head.  Before he could say a thing, the stove swung away, revealing Newkirk and Hill, with the bits and pieces needed to convert a Luftwaffe Colonel to a Lance Corporal courier, and as they dressed him, in came Kinch with Petersen talking a mile a minute, bringing the camp second up to speed.   

So no one actually heard Wilson ask:  "Who are you, and what have you done with our FINK?"

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

"Sir, beggin' the Kommandant's pardon, 'Ow we gettin' past the patrols?  The orders may 'old up, but them SS are frothin' lunatics if ya ask me."  Newkirk was checking the bike and its connection to the sidecar, making sure it was properly secured.  Wouldn't do to leave the Kommandant in the dirt this time!

"Agreed.  But there is a way, a short cut through the forest that only a small vehicle can manage.  Go up the logging road on the left past the first turn before the checkpoint, then…"

"But that takes us to the bleedin' cemetery!"

"Or past it, and through to the high farm roads to Dusseldorf.  Take the roads that I show, and we will have safe passage to our destination."

"Fine.  I'll trust you for it.  Not that I 'ave much choice.  We need to get where we're going fast or not at all.  But," and Newkirk took a deep breath, "with all due respect, you're not the best at all this, usually, Sir, so I think I must insist...I'm the lead of this expedition, until we meet up with your man.  If we run into anything sticky, we play it my way.  Alright?"

Klink looked carefully at the British Airman; he knew he was still 'on sufferance' with the wily Corporal.  Still, to have gained this much respect, no matter how grudging, was an achievement.  So Klink answered mildly, "Of course, Corporal Newkirk.  As agreed, I am under your direction until I must lead.  If that is now settled, we must be going."

"Yeah.  Right-to, then.  You all set?  Off we go!"  And Newkirk, with Klink clinging to the sidecar, barreled out the main gate, and into the twilight, as the long vigil for those left behind began.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx


	4. Chapter 4 - Coming Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Klink and Newkirk arrive at their destination, and for once, Klink is not confused...

January 11, 1945  
Nightfall outside Dusseldorf

They approached the house on foot, leaving the motorbike and side car hidden in the hedgerow. Newkirk followed Klink warily; not that he distrusted his former enemy's motives, only his abilities. Too often, disaster dogged the older man's heels. With Hogan's life at stake, they could not afford Klink's normal (bad) luck, so Newkirk was taking no chances. He would take the lead at the first sign of trouble, as they had agreed, and Klink had better follow without question.

Newkirk was deep in his thoughts, and so busy scanning the area for any movement, he missed that Klink was not leading them to the farmstead, but off to the side, towards what looked like a little peaked roof laying on the ground. They were only a few yards away when the 'roof' turned out to be a door angled into ground.

"Coal vault?" Newkirk whispered.

"Nein, root cellar." Klink whispered back.

Klink paced forward a step or two more, then signaled for a stop. Shaking, Klink took a deep breath, and began to whistle. Newkirk listened, stunned. Not so much at the whistle, but as what he was doing with that sound. The German Kommandant was a whistling tune, older than the hills, a French tune! Why even he knew that one! Then, to compound his amazement, Klink began to sing!

Auprès de ma blonde  
Qu'il fait bon, fait bon, fait bon.  
Auprès de ma blonde  
Qu'il fait bon dormir !

The door opened a crack; a voice rose out of the depths: "Wilhelm?"

"Paul." The door opened wider and a head rose out. Newkirk had never seen any of Klink's family, but the man below bore an unmistakable resemblance to the officer.

In German, the man said: "Wilhelm, are you crazy or stupid? What are you doing here? And who is this with you?"

"Paul, for once, I am quite in the right, and I will explain everything below. Let us in, please."

The man scowled, but waved them in. Newkirk carefully felt his way down the tall ladder, as it took a few eye blinks before his eyes adjusted. Looking around, it was a typical cold room, rows of shelves filled with homemade canned produce, dried herbs and flowers hanging from the rafters. The room extended back towards the house, thirty feet or more at his best guess. Newkirk shook himself and started to listen to the conversation he was missing:

"…know we have not been on the best of terms…" at this, Klink's brother snorted, but the noise was ignored and the Colonel continued, "…but this is much more important than my pride or yours. A good man's life is at stake; I dare not tell you more."

"Really? There is still a good man left in the Third Reich?" interrupted the younger Klink, sneering. "And what do you think that I, your ner' do well brother, the malingerer, can do, hmm? Who do…"

But Klink shouted over his brother: "Paul, I swear to God that you may shoot me for all my sins after the Allies win, but we have no time for your hate! For the love of our mother, please! Tell me that you have the contacts with the black market that I am certain you do, and can get us penicillin, enough for one course of treatment for one person! I will pay you whatever you want, give you whatever I have, turn myself over to the Gestapo for whatever awaits those who are less if it will appease you, but get me the means to save him!"

Stunned silence. No one had ever heard Wilhelm Klink speak with such rage, passion and humility. Newkirk didn't think that he'd ever heard anyone speak like that, period. Paul stared at Wilhelm, then at Newkirk, checking to see if the other man had heard what he had, then back to his brother: "Who are you, and what have you done with my brother?"

The elder Klink barked a laugh: "Brother, I finally have something and someone worth fighting for, who needs me now to fight for him. You always had the favor of our father and the world; with or without me, you would do well. I was a millstone around your neck; better we be estranged than for you to be dragged down with me. But please please tell me you can obtain this medicine! We are in dire need, and no matter what you think of me, ask him," nodding at Newkirk, "and he will tell you, the one in need is the finest man in all Europe!"

Paul Klink turned, bewildered, to Newkirk. In his best German, Newkirk affirmed: "Yes, please, it is true. We cannot tell you more, but things are not as they appear. And, well you seem familiar to me, and I think you can be trusted."

"You too seem familiar...very familiar." Paul's eyes grew wide as an impossibility struck his mind: "There has been a blight, but may the apple trees bloom in the spring."

The recognition code came back in stereo: "And may the Eagles fly home, after ridding us of vermin."

"My God, Wilhelm! We are on the same side!" and with that, two feuding brothers embraced and a childhood grudge died. "But, my contacts said that I was to obtain what drugs I could, either sulfa or penicillin, and wait for the emergency call."

"The radio is down, we need spare parts." said Newkirk.

"Have you a list? We are on radio silence, but I can see what I can find."

Newkirk pawed through his pockets and produced a crumpled list, handing it over as Klink said: "So you have what we need? Already?"

"Yes, but it was to be sent for the...oh, OH! Wilhelm, this medicine was reserved for a forest creature, a very large, very famous creature! One with cubs."

"It is for the sake of Papa Bear himself that we are here."

"Then have it all. And more, I have a list of roads that the SS have mined to slow the advance. If you can get it to the advance columns..."

"Yes, we can and we will. Trust Papa Bear for that!"

"If he lives. I am sorry that I have delayed you. But here, take Mama's herb book and grab everything! These herbs do me no good, and they may help you if you have a doctor or someone who cooks well, and can follow a recipe."

Klink and Newkirk pulled down as many bunches as they could reach, while Paul found several radio parts and the sealed package of drugs: "The penicillin is straight from my contact at the Red Cross, we are lucky they had some. With so much of the SS diverting the sulfa for themselves, there is none to be had, and only the Allies have penicillin. The instructions for use are inside, I heard it was tricky to use, but so powerful, it has raised the dead." Turning to Newkirk, Paul added, "I found everything but the last vacuum tube. But surely, the Army will have one to spare when you send the list."

"Thank you, Paul, from the bottom of my heart."

They embraced again: "When you see Papa Bear, tell him his brother-in-law is anxious to meet him." Paul whispered. Louder: "Now go quickly! They will ask fewer questions once you are on the main road."

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: The song is an old French tune from the 1700’s called: “The Prisoner of Holland”. My headcanon tells me Klink learned it in WW1 and taught his little brother the tune (Klink is an Anglophile, Paul a Francophile). I will tell you more about this song at the end of the story. 
> 
> Meanwhile here is the link on youtube (I really didn’t get it when I was 6, but it’s fun to sing – google the tune and you’ll see): youtube dot com slash watch?v=lY2izR3fN_U
> 
> As usual, a thousand thanks to my betas Snooky, 80s, Kat & Wolfie, to Snooky for the fantastic review and to Belphegor for the great idea that should come to fruition in the last chapter.
> 
> And for the record, while it is canon that Klink has a brother, Paul Klink is my OC (for once).

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to Snooky, Kat and Wolfie for beta-ing this originally and for their continued support.
> 
> Col. Phillips and the Howling Commandos were of course borrowed from "Captain America - The First Avenger".
> 
> Also, the "code" exchanged between Col. Phillips and Huntsman? That was an old joke from the classic American 1960s TV series, "F Troop", which was set in the Old West, showcasing the antics of US Cavalry soldiers and the local Native American tribe at a remote Fort Courage.


End file.
